


Do you remember Roy and Walt?

by Sijglind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Torture, Dark Dean Winchester, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 05, Torturer Dean, the "hurt my brother and I'll come after you" protective kind of Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you remember Roy and Walt? No? Doesn't matter, because Dean does. And, most of all, he remembers his promise to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you remember Roy and Walt?

There's a roadhouse outside of Indian Springs, Nevada, where the town's drunkards meet up every evening to play pool and drink. It isn't the nicest of places, sure, but who needs fancy bars and colorful diners when you can have a dimly-lit room that smells of stale beer, sweat and smoke. The people who come here aren't there to socialize, they're answering a siren's call.

It's the middle of the night when a man stumbles out of the door onto the parking lot, smelling of booze and humming under his breath. He's no local, just passing through, and thought he'd stop here for a bit of rest before he drives on tomorrow. The keys in his hand jingle, and maybe it's not that good of an idea to drive back to the motel now, instead of walking, but he's a creature of comfort, sometimes, and he's driven his trusty truck in far worse states before. A couple beers shouldn't make that much of a difference.

There's a moment of struggling with the door's lock, and the keys slip from his clumsy fingers, land in the dry dirt of the lot. The man sighs, chuckles to himself and bends down to pick them up, steadying himself against the side of the truck as he does so.

That's why he doesn't hear the other man moving towards him.

Without warning, a fist pounds into his kidney and the man goes to his knees with a strangled gasp, hitting his head on the side of his car. Instincts kick in, adrenaline floods his system and he struggles to his knees, whirls around, but he's not quick enough, alcohol, the late hour and the long hours of driving here slowing him down as if he's having lead weights stripped to his limbs.

The next punch catches his jaw, makes his head snap back with the force of the blow and his back connects painfully hard with the truck, pushes the air out of his lungs. Another blow, to his gut, makes him double over, and then there's a hand closing around his neck, pulling him back upright. He can't see his attacker, but he doesn't need to, has fought way worse things than some asshole trying to rob a drunken guy, and he immediately swings for the son of a bitch.

Unfortunately for him, his attacker saw it coming, knew he'd try it, and dodges easily, one hand coming up to close around the fist, fingers digging into pressure points that make the man grunt in pain and relax his hand. He gets a kick to the shin as reward for his trouble.

Two hands grasping his head quickly, one on each side, pulling it forwards and then slamming it back against the frame of the truck, and then the world goes black around him.

 

“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” the words are accompanied by a bucketful of cold water, and the man tied to the chair in the middle of the empty living room jerks to consciousness immediately, looks around frantically and struggles against the ropes holding him in place when he realizes he's bound.

“What the--”

“Sleep well, Walt?” Walt freezes, looks at his captor, a dark form in front of him, no more than a dark silhouette against the weak light of the streetlights pouring in through the dirty windows. He recognizes the deep voice—whiskey rough and dark—but it can't be, it isn't goddamn possible!

“Surprised?” the voice asks and then there's the sound of a match grinding against the striking edge of the box, the sizzling of the phosphorus head catching fire, orange light revealing a familiar face, painting it in warm light and dark shadows.

“Christo,” Walt whispers, and Dean Winchester chuckles, mirthless. His eyes don't turn black.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says, and his grin is sharp, teeth glinting like broken glass between his lips. He walks over to a dusty table only a few feet away, lights the oil lamp on it. With Winchester's back turned, Walt shifts in his seat, pulls on the restrains holding him in place, tries to feel the pressure of his hidden weapons, but there's nothing. His gun and knifes are gone, the rope holds, and all he manages to do is chafe his wrists and ankles and chest.

Winchester turns back towards him and looks particularly smug.

“You wound me, Walt,” he says with mocked hurt to his voice. “Thinking I'd be so sloppy and leave you your weapons or give you an easy escape.”

“Fuck you!” Walt snarls, but there's cold dread spreading in his guts, filling him until he can feel it like a vice around his heart and lungs, pressing down and making it hard to breathe.

Winchester ignores him and pulls a knife instead, twists it in his hand, the light of the oil lamp playing over the blade to reveal different symbols carved into the steel. With a thumb he tests the sharpness of the edge and teeth.

“Y'know, Walt,” he begins and walks closer to the bound hunter in the chair, his voice nonchalant and calm, as if he wasn't here, in this rundown house, about to torture a fellow hunter. “All these rumors about me going to hell? Nothing but the truth.”

The floorboards creak under the weight of his body, groaning like the souls of the damned. Walt shudders and begins struggling again.

“Made a deal with a crossroads chick, sold my soul to get my brother back. Got a year and then they came. Three hellhounds dragged me down.”

He's right in front of Walt now, leaning in to bring their faces closer, but staying out of reach for a headbutt. His smirk isn't cocky like usual, but grim and twisted, and there's a darkness in his eyes that makes Walt swallow against the lump in his throat.

“Spent thirty years on the rack,” Winchester goes on, the hand with the knife coming up, the flat of the blade cool against Walt's skin as he draws it over his cheek. “And ten in front of it as Alistair's star pupil.”

A twist of his wrist and a pulling sensation on Walt's cheek, as if he's been pinched. It doesn't hurt, not yet, but there's already something wet and warm running down his skin, trickling towards his yaw and from there along his neck. Winchester's eyes follow the thin stream of blood until it soaks the collar of Walt's shirt. He purses his lips as if in consideration.

“Gotta tell you, man, the things you learn down there. Demons are nothing but creative when it comes to torture. And they're doing it since—what—millennia? I guess when it comes to making someone scream in pain, they're the go-to guys.”

Walt whimpers, and Winchester laughs, backhanding him in one quick movement too fast to be tracked by eyes.

“What now?” he asks, unforgiving. “You gonna piss your pants now, Walt? Big, mean hunter going around killing the guy who started the Apocalypse, turning into a pussy when the guy's brother comes for him?”

“But I shot you myself,” Walt shouts, both cheeks stinging now, tears in the corners of his eyes, his voice wet and choked. “How can you be here?”

Winchester laughs again, endlessly amused and crouches down in front of the chair and its occupant. “And you call yourself a hunter of the Supernatural, dude?

“Tell you what,” he says casually, shrugging. “Since you won't be leaving this room anyway to tell anyone.”

There's a warm wetness spreading in Walt's lap, running down his thighs, and Winchester grunts in disgust.

“Ugh,” he says and grimaces. “Keep your shit together, man, I don't wanna have to torch the whole place. Even Roy didn't piss his pants that quickly, and he's the far bigger coward of you two.”

“Roy?” Walt chokes and perks up. If Roy knows Winchester is after him then--

Winchester smirks and twirls the knife in his hand like he's doing it every day, not even looking at the lethal weapon as it twists and turns like it's alive.

“He sends his regards and says he's sorry that he couldn't show up for the party, but he's sadly in no condition to go anywhere.”

Walt struggles against his bonds, the chair scratching its legs over the floorboards as he moves barely an inch towards Winchester. “What did you do to him, you sorry son of a bitch.”

Winchester's face sobers from one second to the next and he straightens, knees popping, rolling his head from one side to the other as if to loosen a crick in his neck.

“Nothing I won't do to you, too, Walt,” he says, low and dark, and it's not a threat, it's a goddamn promise.

“You're really unlucky, Walt,” he tells him as he grabs Walt's chin with his empty hand, holding his head in place, fingertips digging with bruising force into skin and bones, prying his jaws open so that he can reach teeth and tongue.

“It was easy to get outta Heaven, especially when you have an angel on your speed dial.”

Glinting blade of the knife slipping into his mouth, into a gap between his incisors, cutting into his gums as easily as through butter, the copperysaltywarm taste of blood flooding his mouth, breath coming in quick, gurgling coughs.

“Thing is,” his voice is so calm, unperturbed, nonchalant. “Even without our celestial buddy, I'd have found a way out of Heaven and back to Earth.”

Tip pressing into the roof of Walt's mouth, slicing it open towards the back of his throat. Not deep enough to make him bleed enough to pass out because of blood loss, but enough to make him want to scream in pain, but his own blood is choking him, making him cough, his whole body jerking with it, jarring the knife in his mouth.

“'Cause you see, that night you broke into our motel room?”

The knife withdraws painfully slowly, cutting into his bottom lip on the way out, steel teeth catching on his upper lip and tearing it open. The hand lets go of his face and slips into his hair, stopping him from letting his head drop to his chest in exhaustion. Winchester's face is blurry through the sheen of tears in Walt's eyes, and it looks twisted, half cast in light, half in shadows, the flame of the oil lamp dancing in eyes as black as the pits this creature was created in.

“I made you a promise, Walt. I said, I'd come after you if you'd touch so much as a hair on my little brother.”

A broad grin, almost manic, the tip of a pink tongue playing with the tip of the upper right canine.

“You shot him. And now look at us.”

He makes a gesture that encompasses the room and them both, Walt, bleeding and breathing raggedly, tied to a chair, Dean Winchester in front of him, Walt's blood staining his right hand and the knife he's holding in it.

“You should'a run, Walt. As fast and as far as you could.”

He frowns, clicking his tongue, once, before the smirk returns.

“Or maybe not. I would've found you anyway.”

 

Dean grabs a shower and changes clothes in the dirty bathroom of the gas station at the edge of town. He dumps the clothes—they smell of blood, piss, shit, gasoline and smoke—and buys a beer in the only still open bar, drinks two thirds of it and upends the rest over his chest. It'll have to do.

Only then does he return to the motel, glad to find the lights turned off.

Sammy wakes up, of course, when he comes in, but he's too sleepy to realize Dean hasn't been drinking. Were he still wide awake, he'd maybe been able to tell, but like this he only smells the booze on Dean's clothes and breath and will think he'd been out to drink something or flirt with the women the town has to offer.

“Found anything?” Sammy asks, voice thick with sleep, and rubs a hand over his eyes before switching on the bedside lamp. Dean shakes his head and slips out of his clothes, throwing them in the general direction of the bathroom.

“Nothin'. Case is a bust.”

“Told you so,” Sam says and yawns wide, making Dean smile. Down to his boxers, he walks over to the side of the bed and slaps Sam's thigh, “scoot over.”

Sam mumbles something unintelligible, but smiles softly as he makes room for his brother. Dean slips under the sheets, turning onto his side before he pulls Sam into a kiss. Sam breathes a surprised noise against his brother's mouth but responds enthusiastically, throwing one arm over Dean's hips to get closer, one hand holding onto Dean's shoulder and slipping from there over his neck to the back of his head.

The kiss turns heated and hungry with nipping teeth and sucking lips, Dean's tongue fucking into Sam's mouth until he groans and squirms, their hard cocks grinding together. Dean snakes an arm around Sam's waist and rolls onto his back, pulling Sam with him, pushing his hips up so that his cock rubs against Sam's ass cheeks.

“You gonna ride me or what,” he says, breathless against Sam's lips, and Sam chuckles, a deep, dark and rich sound, swiping his tongue over Dean's full bottom lip.

“The girls from around here not to your tastes?” he jokes and circles his hips, rubbing Dean's dick over the still-clothed crease of his ass. Dean gasps and pushes his hands under the waistband of Sam's boxer briefs, kneads his ass cheeks and spreads them before brushing a finger over Sam's hole.

“There's only you,” he admits, almost too quiet, but Sam hears him, always does, and he smiles, beautifully, his eyes alight and hungry, and so happy, his dimples showing.

“I know, Dean. I know.”

 

Another small town in the US, another roadhouse. Grim, scruffy faces, scarred hands covered in callouses left there by weapons.

“Anyone heard of Roy 'n Walt?” spoken into a group of men sitting around a table in the corner of the room. Glances are exchanged, the questioner frowning and waiting as cards are thrown down in the middle of the table. Two of the men raise their bottles to their lips and take long gulps, a trickle of beer running out of the corner of the mouth of one, drops caught by the scruff along his jaw before he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

He looks down at the cards in his hand before laying them face down on the table, leans back in his seat.

“Last thing I heard they went after the Winchesters. Little Sammy's supposed to have started the Apocalypse.”

“The Winchesters?”

“Sure thing.”

Silence as the men around the table remember the two hunters.

Then one of them puts another card down in the middle of the table, brings the game back on the move.

He speaks around the cigarette dangling from his lips, ash at its tip quivering, “should've just let it go. After all, Gordon the bastard went after Sam, too. Never seen again.”

Another one nods and turns his head to spit on the ground.

“Damn idiots. Everybody knows no one touches Sam Winchester without havin' Dean come after 'em.”


End file.
